


Their First Christmas

by cordeliadelayne



Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: Christmas, Christmas Fluff, Gen, unexpected presents
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-19
Updated: 2016-10-19
Packaged: 2018-08-21 23:47:42
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,147
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8264887
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cordeliadelayne/pseuds/cordeliadelayne
Summary: John assumes that Sherlock is disinterested in Christmas.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [seraphina_snape](https://archiveofourown.org/users/seraphina_snape/gifts).



> Written for seraphina_snape, who wanted John surprised at Sherlock's efforts at Christmas.
> 
> Originally posted to Livejournal in 2010.

It wasn’t often that London got enough snow for it to properly feel like Christmas, but this year was the coldest on record, _again_ , and John was definitely feeling in the mood as he walked through Covent Garden. The cobbles were a little slippery but the atmosphere definitely made up for it, as children squealed in delight and adults, wrapped up against the bitter cold, went about their last minute Christmas shopping.

John was out trying to find something for Mrs Hudson. He wasn't one for seasonal gifts that everyone packed away after the holiday was over, nor did he see the point in excessively impractical gifts. He passed a shop selling kitchenware and decided that was the perfect place.

* * * *

After ten minutes of quick browsing and what seemed like an interminable wait for the shop assistant to gift wrap the crock pot, John was out of the shop and heading home.

He spared a glance for the decorations and brightly lit shop windows as he went, but knew there was no point in stopping and going inside. He might not have known Sherlock long, but John thought he knew him well enough to know his opinion on Christmas. A silly tradition, no doubt. Pointless. An excuse for family arguments and get-togethers (John shuddered at the thought of Sherlock and Mycroft sitting around a table together, wearing paper hats and pulling one end of a cracker each).

So he would return to their undecorated flat – without even a wreath to brighten up the front door – and make a cup of tea as usual. He'd send Harry a “Merry Christmas” text and resolutely not ask whether she'd been drinking at her work Christmas do. Then he'd sit down in front of the telly and watch a film.

It wouldn't be the same as past Christmases, of course. No special food, no drinks you only ever bring out at this time of year, no swapping of presents, no tree or decorations, no pretending to the carol singer's outside that no one's in. But John could understand, in a way, why Sherlock wouldn't share the same joy as (most) of the rest of the country did in this particular holiday.

It probably seemed fake, all this Christmas cheer. He'd never asked, but he was sure that Sherlock was an atheist, so any religious meaning to the holidays was no doubt superstitious nonsense. And then it just came down to commercialisation and celebrating with a bunch of people you probably couldn't stand, receiving gifts that you didn’t want and making promises you knew you were never going to keep.

“Great, bloody great,” John muttered to himself. Now it seemed he was talking himself out of any festive cheer too.

* * * * *

The flat was empty when he got back, which was unusual – Sherlock hadn't moved from the sofa in days. It was cold too, and John spent several minutes trying to coax the central heating into life before finally giving up and going back down the stairs to retrieve his coat and put it back on. He supposed it was too much to hope that Sherlock had gone out in order to sort out their heating problem.

He went to the kitchen and opened the fridge, relieved to see that the milk he had taken to buying in bulk was still there and still looked like milk and not like anything unspeakable had been added to it for reasons that John would rather not know about. He set about making a cup of tea and snagged one of the mince pies Mrs Hudson had brought round the other day.

He was just biting into it and heading to see what film was on the telly, when he heard the front door slam and Sherlock rushing up the stairs. He peered into the kitchen, saw John, and immediately disappeared into his own bedroom.

“Right, hello, Sherlock. Yes, I'm fine, good to see you too, Merry Christmas,” John muttered around his mince pie, and he continued on his way to sitting down and watching some mindless film he'd probably seen hundreds of times before.

* * * * *

When John woke up from the “only five minutes” of resting his eyes, there was a small Christmas tree standing on the table with a single wrapped present underneath it. John blinked, then blinked again before rubbing at his eyes.

“You’re not dreaming, John,” Sherlock said in a withering tone.

John glared over at him before remembering that it was Christmas and goodwill to all men included Sherlock as well.

“What's that?” he said instead, pointing towards the tree. Sherlock's expression didn’t waver and John sighed. “Yes, okay, stupid question.” He paused and looked at Sherlock, waiting for some sort of reaction, but nothing came. “I, uh, I didn’t think you did Christmas.”

On any other face John would assume that that was a blush. But this was Sherlock, and surely the man was incapable of embarrassment.

“Normally I don't,” Sherlock said after a moment. “However, under the circumstances.”

John furrowed his brow. “Circumstances?”

“It is our first Christmas. I thought you might like some of the trappings that other people need.”

“Other people?” John asked, voice hitting a surprised lilt that he coughed to cover up. “Really?”

“Yes, other people.” Sherlock paused and then stood up and handed John the present. “Merry Christmas.”

John looked at the neatly wrapped package the same way he would have looked at a neatly wrapped bomb. Which, judging the source, may very well be what lay inside. But under the scrutiny of Sherlock's gaze John took the offered present and started to unwrap it, more than a little curious about what sort of thing Sherlock would consider appropriate for a present.

“Oh,” John said as he let the paper fall to the floor. “It's -”

“An iPad, yes. I thought you could use it to take down my observations at crime scenes, instead of relying on your memory.”

John took a breath, reminded himself that he'd just been given a present and the sentiment behind it didn’t really matter. “Thank you. I'm sure it will come in very useful.”

Sherlock looked like he was waiting for something, and when John realised what it was his stomach dropped. “Um, I didn't really think that you, did, Christmas...” John repeated, cursing himself for not buying Sherlock a present anyway.

“No, it's not really important. I haven't indulged since Mother...” he stopped. “Well, not for a long time. Tea?”

“No, no,” John said. “Let that be my present to you – a year's tea-making.”

“And biscuits?” Sherlock asked.

“And biscuits,” John agreed as he headed towards the kitchen. Then he paused, turned around and stared at where Sherlock was sitting, smiling to himself like a cat who'd caught a mouse. “Right,” he muttered to himself, “I walked right into that one, didn't I?”

Sherlock was conspicuous by his silence.


End file.
